My song for spring, written in honor of my friend S.M., who refuses to be confined by society or black shoes and instead manifests her moxie through socks, this poem is the less virulent spawn of Sylvia Plath’s poem, “Daddy.”
You do not do, you do not do
anymore, black shoe
in which I have hid like a worm.
For thirty years my pale flesh
a forgotten lily.
Now I prevail.
In stripes and calicoes and soft argyle bliss.
You cannot contain me.
In the orange sun rays
I’ve found my cotton contentment.
Mark this day:
with chants and jigs and love hymns all new.
Black shoe, black shoe, it’s my turn.